eleven

Thursday, March 13, 6:15 a.m., Garrett Station

Peyton was at her desk beside Stan Jackman when Hewitt entered.

“What time did you two get here?” Hewitt asked.

“Christ,” Jackman said, “Peyton never left. She called me in around eleven.”

“Eleven p.m.?” Hewitt said. “You woke him up?”

“It’s okay,” Jackman said. “Worth it. Besides, I know how you love to pay overtime.”

“Overtime gives me heartburn. And you both know that.”

Across the bullpen, Agent Bruce Steele chuckled. Steele was the station’s K-9 agent; his German Shepherd, Poncho, lay at his feet. “They started out being very serious. Then things got giggly around two in the morning. Then they were giving each other high fives around five a.m. Made my night shift more interesting anyway.”

Hewitt tossed his coat onto a chair and moved to Peyton’s desk. “You two worked all night?”

She nodded, leaned back, and sipped her coffee. “Fresh pot,” she said. “I brought Starbucks from home and brewed it myself. I’ll sacrifice one cup, if you’re interested.”

“Peyton, what’s going on?”

“We need to search Ted Donovan’s house and look at his computer.”

“Ted Donovan?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Let me get a cup of coffee,” Hewitt said. “Meet me in my office.”

“Ever eat at the Tip of the Hat?” Peyton asked Hewitt, when he sat down behind his desk across from Stan Jackman and her.

“As little as possible,” Hewitt said.

“Well, there’s a waitress there named Becky. Ted Donovan’s such a pain in the ass, she’s the only one who’ll wait his table. So she knows him a little.” Peyton told Hewitt about her interview with Becky.

“Paintings?”

“Yeah.”

Hewitt looked at Jackman, who nodded.

“Paintings?” Hewitt said again.

“She described one painting that Ted seems to look at a lot.” She smiled and turned her laptop so he could see it.

“That’s a painting of a sinking ship,” Hewitt said.

“Not sinking,” Peyton said. “Far from it. It’s called Storm on the Sea of Galilee. Rembrandt painted it in 1633, and it shows Jesus calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee as depicted in the Book of Mark.”

Hewitt was rocking back and forth gently, his hands clasped behind his neck. He stopped rocking and drank some coffee. “I’m not seeing things coming together here, Peyton. What am I missing?”

“You know how it goes. Sometimes it’s one big thing. Sometimes it’s a lot of little things.”

“That break a case open?” Hewitt said.

“Yeah. There are a lot of little things that are adding up. Ted Donovan earned distinction at Emerson College for his research into art. And he and Dariya were both journalism students. Who better to know how to find out where the paintings were, how much they were worth, and how to get them? They’re trained researchers, Mike. And Ted just flew to Ukraine a few weeks ago, but he never flew back. He was on a ship with Aleksei.”

“Planting Aleksei to allow Dariya into the country?”

“That’s what I believe,” she said.

“Why would he need to do that?”

“Not sure. It gets Dariya here, though.”

“And why does he need to be here?”

“This is where this gets really interesting, Mike,” Jackman said. “This is where we started high-fiving.”

Peyton said, “Both men left Boston in late March of 1990. We know that.”

“And?”

“Mike,” Jackman said and pushed a manila folder toward Hewitt, “take a look at this.”

Hewitt opened the folder. “Boston Globe articles.”

“From March 1990 until today,” Peyton said. “All about the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist. This is what we were doing all night.”

“You think Ted Donovan was connected to this?”

“Two men walked in there in the middle of the night on March 18, 1990, dressed as cops, tied up the two security guards, and walked out with nearly half a billion dollars worth of art.”

“And you think one of them was Ted?”

“I think Ted and Dariya might have been the guys,” Peyton said.

“Peyton, when people talk about ‘the crime of the century,’ this one gets mentioned.”

“I’m telling you, Mike. We need to get the FBI agents working this up here. A lot of little things add up, things Dariya and Ted have said. And the timing fits. They were both there, then they were gone. And Ted’s background makes this plausible. And, as journalists, they’d know where to find information on how to get in and out of the museum and even how to sell the stuff. And Dariya’s arrival tells us something.”

“What’s that?”

“If I’m right, they’re moving it.”

Hewitt looked down at the clips. “Thirteen works of art? Some of these things are five feet tall.”

“We need to look into this, Mike,” she said.

“Let me call Boston,” he said.

Peyton went back out to her desk and texted Tommy, glad—for maybe the first time—she’d gotten him an iPhone.

u up?

yes

She flipped to her recent calls and re-dialed his number.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning, pal. Are you dressed?”

“Yes. And my teeth are brushed and my hair is combed and Gram is making pancakes.”

“Pancakes? She spoils you.” She tried to joke it off but couldn’t. Not spoiling, she thought. Just being responsible. By contrast, Peyton had worked a double shift, and the last breakfast she’d made her son had been a bowl of Cheerios with a sliced banana. “Sorry I haven’t been around too much the last couple days.”

“Gram says you’re really busy at work.”

“Yeah.” She looked at the bullpen. Three agents were fanned across the room. One was typing, another was reading pages from a folder, and the third was adding water bottles and granola bars to a field pack. “Too busy sometimes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Karate was good last night. I think I can win my next match.”

“Oh my god,” she said, “I totally forgot you had karate last night. Did Gram take you?”

“No. Stone.”

“Stone took you?”

“Yeah. He came over and told Gram you were busy and said he could take me. I need to go now. Gram wants to quiz me. Spelling test today.”

“I love you, Tommy.”

“I know. I love you too.” He hung up.

She slid her phone into her cargo pant pocket and couldn’t help smiling. For a single mother in law enforcement, it really did take a village.

And she was glad as hell Stone lived in it.

12 p.m., Razdory, Russia

Yevgeniy, the skinny man with the tattooed arms, was back. Nicolay didn’t think he liked him. Had a lot of trouble understanding him—gigahertz this, RAM that—but he had to admit the little man knew his way around a computer. The arrangement was cash.

“I want to read emails on this computer,” Nicolay said.

“That could take forever,” Yevgeniy said. “Want me to search for something?”

Victor was upstairs sleeping. He’d slept a lot these past few days, and that worried Nicolay. The eighty-one-year-old never seemed hungry either.

“There are three different email accounts on this computer,” Yevgeniy said.

“I’m only interested in the girl’s.”

Nicolay was amazed at the speed with which Yevgeniy’s hands worked on the keyboard. They seemed to float across it.

“Is there anything in particular you want me to search for?”

“Anything having to do with money or travel,” Nicolay said.

The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Three-year-old Anna ran into the room pushing a doll in a tiny stroller. The stroller slammed into the wall near Nicolay and overturned, the doll spilling onto the floor.

“My doll is hurt,” Anna said. She lifted it to him.

Nicolay took the tiny doll in his massive hands and kissed it, his white beard sweeping across the plastic face. “There, there. All better.” He handed it back to the little girl.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said and went out.

Yevgeniy smiled and watched the girl go. When Nicolay turned back, he said, “I might have something” and pointed at the screen.

Nicolay put his reading glasses on. He looked at the airline receipts. “Can you tell me who bought those?”

“The name on the receipt is a man.”

Nicolay saw Pyotr’s name on the receipt. They were divorced. Was she traveling to see him? “Are there any emails from him?”

“A bunch.”

“Any recent?”

“Two days ago.” Yevgeniy opened the email. “It’s directions.”

“To what?”

Yevgeniy told him.

Nicolay leaned back and thought about that. What did it mean? “Print that email out,” he said. “I need you to reopen the file you opened for me the last time you were here.”

“The financial stuff ?”

Nicolay nodded.

“I showed you how.”

“Well, I can’t do it. I need you to do it.”

It took Yevgeniy all of two minutes. “It looks different,” he said.

Nicolay reached into his pocket and retrieved cash. “That’s all,” he said. “You may go now.”

When the door closed behind Yevgeniy, Nicolay replaced his reading glasses and leaned close to the computer screen. Yevgeniy had been correct.

The account looked very different now.

“Victor,” Nicolay said, “I think there’s a problem.”

Victor was in the leather chair near the bed. The old man’s head rolled toward him. Nicolay saw liver spots beneath Victor’s thin hair; his eyes were watery and looked tired.

“What kind of problem?” The blankets were pulled nearly to his chin as he lay in bed.

“Financial.”

Victor felt a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before.

Nicolay crossed his legs, admiring his freshly polished shoes. “What is Marfa getting you?”

“The gift of a lifetime.”

“And you’re paying for it?”

“Of course I’m paying,” Victor said.

“And you gave her access to your accounts?”

A fist clenched Victor’s chest. “Why do you ask? She did the hard part—she found it.”

Nicolay pointed to the space on the wall across from the foot of Victor’s bed. “A painting?”

“A Rembrandt, Nicolay. Not a painting.” The old man’s pale face colored, his breath quickened, a little boy’s excitement flashing in his eyes. “A fucking Rembrandt.” He coughed and struggled to catch his breath.

“Lean back. You’re breathing hard, Victor.”

“It’s the one I’ve loved since I was a boy. I think it’s his greatest work—symbolic and religious and hopeful. It’s everything I love in Rembrandt. It’s been underground for years, but Marfa found it.”

Nicolay pursed his lips. “Marfa found it? There’s a little Dimitri in her after all.”

“No. Dimitri was a businessman. She’s got an artist’s eye. Always had it. Even as a little girl. Remember that afternoon I told you about? At the Louvre? Even then she could spot great works. She should go to America, maybe become an art critic.”

“I think you insulted her, Victor. How much will the painting cost?”

“Not nearly what it’s worth. It’s worth five times what I’m paying.”

“A good investment.”

“It’s not about that.”

“What, then?”

Victor pointed to the space on the wall. “About owning a piece of greatness and beauty. That’s all. I don’t have much time. It’s all I’ve asked of her.”

“You’ve asked more than that,” Nicolay said.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s more like you than you know, Victor.”

“You always say that. You know how I feel about that. This life’s no good for her. I don’t want it for her.”

Nicolay knew it was no use. He was torn. He loved the girl like a daughter, but Victor had taken him in at fifteen. Victor had provided for him on several levels, giving him a home, replacing the father he’d lost, and promising him an inheritance.

“And Marfa has access to the accounts?”

Victor looked at Nicolay.

“Are you okay? Victor, your face looks red. You’re breathing hard.”

“My chest is a little tight this morning. You’ve mentioned the accounts three times. What is it?”

“The other day, you said you had a bad feeling.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a problem, Victor. But I don’t want you to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

Victor struggled to sit up in bed.

“Don’t,” Nicolay said. “You’re out of breath. Lie back.”

Victor fought to position the pillows. His breathing was labored; the tightness in his chest turned to an ache. “Tell me, goddamnit.”

Nicolay uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “The accounts are empty, Victor.”

“Empty?”

“Are you saying she took my money?”

“Can you slow your breathing? You’re worrying me, Victor.”

“You called the banks?”

“Yes. It’s not a clerical error.”

“This is about the business. She’s angry. She’s never understood.”

“No,” Nicolay agreed.

“Have you heard from her?”

“I tried to call and text. Her phone is off or the number has changed. I’ll continue to try.”

Victor looked out the window at the overcast sky. A crow was perched on the powerline.

“You’re breathing hard, Victor. Lie back. I’m going downstairs to get water and to check on Anna and Rodia. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of everything.”

Victor watched the door close behind Nicolay. Marfa? His daughter? His money? His instincts had told him something was wrong. For so long, he’d survived on instinct and prediction. But when it came to his daughter, he hadn’t wanted to see it coming. The tightness in his chest worsened. The pain intensified and spread across his chest to his left arm. Marfa didn’t understand. Never had. His sandpaper breaths were labored, and he began to gasp.

Outside the window, the crow was still on the powerline. He wouldn’t think of Marfa this way. Not here. Not at the end. He thought of that glorious Paris afternoon at the Louvre, of the little girl looking at Carcass of Beef with awe and appreciation.

The crow flew away.

“The children are fine.” Nicolay closed the door behind him. “And I brought you water.” He took a step into the room and looked up.

And he knew.

“Oh, God. No. Not now. Not like this.”

He checked Victor’s arm for a pulse, which confirmed the fact.

Nicolay leaned over his dead friend and kissed the old man’s cheek. “Together for forty-five years.” He sat heavily in the leather chair. “Friend,” he said. “Father.” He looked at the old man, whose eyes were frozen in repose.

“I’ll take care of everything,” Nicolay said. “I’ll make it right.”

7:50 a.m., Garrett High School

Michael saw Uncle Ted’s pickup as he crossed the parking lot walking toward the school. The truck approached, and Ted rolled down his window.

“Got a minute to talk, Mikey?”

Cars and pickups drove past them. Uncle Ted was alone. That made the unexpected visit better. Michael didn’t trust Dariya Vann. He seemed to be angry all the time.

“Not really. School starts in a few minutes.”

“We need to talk, Mikey. Won’t take long.”

“About what?”

“We live under the same roof, Mikey. You really can’t avoid me. Get in.”

Michael looked at him. Ted pointed to the passenger door. Michael thought about it and finally rounded the hood and slid onto the passenger’s seat. Morning sunlight reflected off the dashboard, making Michael squint.

“What is it?”

“Were you in my apartment, Mikey?”

“I don’t have a key.”

“That isn’t what I asked. Something very important was taken.”

“Like what?”

Ted looked at Michael. “I think we both know.”

“Not me,” Michael said. “No idea.”

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle Ted.”

Ted leaned back, resting his head against the back of the seat. He exhaled loudly, reached into his pocket, and removed an iPhone, tossing it onto the seat between them.

“You left this under my sofa.”

Michael looked at his iPhone.

“Where is it, Mikey?”

Michael stared at his phone then looked up at Ted.

Ted smiled. “No harm done. I just want it back.”

Michael didn’t speak. He was staring at the phone.

“You want money? Is that it?”

Michael shook his head. “You don’t own it. No one can own it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It wasn’t created to be owned. You don’t get it.”

“Listen—”

But he didn’t. Michael picked up his phone. What had he just said? What had he done? How could he have been so careless?

He opened the door and ran.

8:20 a.m., Paradise Court

Marfa hated the lighting in this damned 1970s bathroom. She was doing her hair in the mirror.

“I don’t trust either of them,” Marfa said over her shoulder. “Did you see how they looked at each other?”

“Yes.” Pyotr was on a chair near the window in a corner of the bedroom, sipping coffee.

“How do you like the coffee?” she asked.

“Strong. You made it differently.” He coughed. “It’s bitter.”

“You think?”

“You—” He didn’t finish.

She could hear him retch.

“I made it a little differently, yes,” she said. “You sound like you’re gagging, sweetie.”

She liked the way her hair looked. She went on to her mascara. If the formica countertop and ugly yellow backsplash weren’t enough, the single damned light made it nearly impossible to do her makeup.

Pyotr coughed. She heard the foot stool overturn.

“Marfa, help me—”

“Oh, I thought you liked strong coffee.”

“Please!”

“I think you do like it,” she said.

She moved the mascara brush slowly, lengthening her lashes. He was gasping now. She stepped back to examine herself in the mirror. She liked what she saw. The hacking in the other room grew louder. When she stepped out of the bathroom, Pyotr was on his hands and knees.

“The coffee!” he gasped. “You—”

“Oh, you spilled your cup, sweetie,” she said. “There goes the security deposit.”

He tried to crawl toward her.

“Is the coffee too strong?”

She descended the stairs. As she pulled her coat on, she heard a soft thud overhead. She closed the door behind her gently and went out.

9:15 a.m., Garrett Middle School

“I like your new clothes,” Dariya said.

Aleksei smiled. “Bohana bought them.”

His father noticed how easily he smiled here. They were walking around the back of the school. The guidance counselor had called Aleksei to the office when his father asked to see him. It was in the mid thirties, but the sun was warm. Aleksei wore a blue winter coat; Dariya wore a leather jacket.

“Your hands are dry and cracked,” Dariya said.

“It happened when I was in the woods, Papa. I need to get back to class.”

“I just wanted to see you. Do you like your new school?”

“Very much. I’m learning a lot.”

“And the people?”

Aleksei shrugged. “How is Mother?”

“I’m getting her the treatment she needs.”

“What does she need?”

“Surgeries,” Dariya said. “Several.”

A boy and girl walked around the corner of the building, holding hands. Dariya saw them, thought of his own son, and wondered about Aleksei’s shoulder shrug and change of subject.

“Are you happy here?” Dariya asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to stay?”

“I want to see Mother. I want to know she’s okay.”

“She will be. You can stay with Bohana until I get things set up.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re moving to Switzerland after your school year.”

Aleksei stopped walking. “Leaving Ukraine?”

His father nodded.

“I just came here. Now we move again?”

“I’m here to conduct business. It will allow us to move, Aleksei. You need to trust me. In Switzerland, people don’t live the way we have had to. It’s beautiful. Mountains. Snow. And there’s no fighting there.”

“And Mother?”

“She’ll be well there.”

Aleksei nodded. “What do you need to do here?”

“That’s not your worry, son. Have you seen your cousin today?”

Aleksei shook his head.

“Do you have his phone number?”

11:11 a.m., Garrett Station

“I see you spruced the place up,” Frank Hammond said, entering the bullpen. Two other agents were with him.

Peyton saw a black Suburban parked outside.

“We don’t all have federal budgets,” Hewitt said, shaking Hammond’s hand. “Good to see you, Frank.”

And, to Peyton’s surprise, she thought Hewitt meant it.

“Aroostook County is always two months behind Boston in terms of weather,” Hammond said. “I’m freezing my ass off up here, again.”

“Welcome to The County,” Hewitt said.

Hammond was the FBI’s executive assistant director of the criminal investigative division. He worked out of a glass office in downtown Boston. He had a little more gray hair than he’d had the last time she’d seen him, but he still looked like a guy who ran 10Ks. He wore a Boston Strong T-shirt, jeans, and New Balance running shoes.

Hammond looked at Peyton. “I hear you might have some information I’d be interested in.”

“Are you the lead agent on the Gardner Museum heist?”

“I am now. It’s been twenty-five years. The lead agent has changed numerous times.”

“Follow me,” she said.

Peyton was at the whiteboard in the makeshift conference room. Hewitt, Hammond, Stan Jackman, and two FBI field agents, who looked far too young, fanned out around the picnic table.

“You guys hold all your meetings around picnic tables?” one of the young agents said.

“It’s also our break room,” Jackman said. “If you get hungry, I’m sure there are leftovers in the fridge.” He pointed.

The FBI agent smiled.

Hammond made introductions. The annoying agent was Steven Ramirez.

“Hope you don’t need me to go undercover,” Ramirez said. “Not a lot of brown people up here.”

“You have any agents in Boston who are housebroken?” Peyton said to Hammond.

“Yes,” Hammond said. “Ramirez doesn’t get out much.” Then to Ramirez, “Shut up.”

After Peyton’s debrief, Hewitt looked at Hammond. “You have the warrant?”

Hammond nodded.

“That was quick,” Hewitt said.

Hammond shrugged. “A lot of people have been looking for this stuff for a long time.”

“We going in hot?” Ramirez asked.

“No,” Peyton said. “The son and father probably won’t be home. And Ted Donovan is most likely at work. His sister-in-law might be home.”

“Ramirez can pick Ted Donovan up at his work,” Hammond said. “I’d like to interview him and would like your help, agent.”

“Of course,” Peyton said. She smiled politely but bristled inside. It was her case, after all. Except, she knew FBI and ICE had jurisdiction on a case with national and possibly international implications.

“Where’s Dariya Vann?” Hammond said. He was staring at Dariya’s name on the whiteboard.

“Wildcard,” Hewitt said. “We have no idea what he’s doing.”

“Armed? Dangerous?”

“We just don’t know,” Peyton said. “He doesn’t have a violent past.”

“That we know about,” Jackman added.

“That we know about,” Peyton concurred.

“Let’s roll,” Ramirez said. He was the first one out the door.

11:30 a.m., Tim Hortons, Reeds

“Where’s your husband?” Dariya said when Marfa approached the table carrying a large shoulder bag and a latte and sat across from the two men.

She nodded to Ted and said in English, “He won’t be joining us.”

“Thank you for speaking English.” Ted smiled. He liked looking at this woman named Sonya. He could smell her perfume over the aromas of donuts, coffee, and lunchtime soup.

“I want to be sure we are all clear on where we stand,” she said.

Dariya was alright with the husband bowing out. He was a Putin sympathizer. Dariya looked around. A couple men at other tables sat quietly, reading newspapers. It seemed odd, the atmosphere so different here: People were relaxed. No one looked scared.

“There a reason why he won’t be joining us?” Ted asked her.

She sipped her latte. Dariya saw her lipstick mark on the glass as he slurped his black coffee.

“For one, he didn’t exactly find your friend, here, amiable.”

Dariya said, “So you’re handling transaction?”

“That’s how it looks,” she said.

“And money? You have our money?”

“I have it,” she said. “And the painting? I’d like to see it.”

“It’s magnificent,” Ted said. “I’ve studied art for most of my life. There’s nothing like it.”

“And it’s been authenticated?”

“Of course,” Ted said. “We took it ourselves.”

“And you can prove its authenticity?”

Ted turned to Dariya. “Have you discussed this with her before?”

Dariya shook his head.

Marfa recrossed her legs and bobbed her ankle. She smiled at him.

“Like I said, we took the painting. I’ve had it for twenty-five years. I study art, always have. It’s the real thing.”

“We don’t need talk about twenty-five years ago,” Dariya said. “No one needs to know about that. Just now. Just sale.”

“I’m paying a lot of money,” she said. “I’d like to know it’s authentic.”

Ted laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s a lot of money,” she said again.

“Lady, if you find a stolen Rembrandt that thieves have had officially authenticated,” Ted said, “fucking call me. We took it. The last thing I’m about to do is call someone in to examine the fucking thing. On the contrary, I’ve been hiding the thing for half my life. That’s why we’re selling this to you for a fraction of what it’s worth.”

“I want to see the painting,” she said.

Dariya was leaning back, arms folded across his chest. “And we want to see money.”

“Fine.” She reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew her a black laptop with a red sticker, opened it, and turned it for them to see. She pointed as if tutoring them. “Here are your accounts. They’re empty. Here’s my account.”

Dariya was silent.

Ted said, “Holy shit.”

“Now I want to see the painting,” Marfa said.

“We’ll call you,” Ted said.

12:15 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane

“What is that?” Bohana said. She was standing in the front door.

Hammond explained the details of the federal warrant again.

“Bohana,” Peyton said, “I know this is a lot to take in, and that it comes on the heels of a long night, but you need to let us in. Let’s make this as painless as possible.”

“I’m not leaving my house.”

“You don’t need to, ma’am,” Hammond said.

Peyton saw Bohana look at Hammond’s black FBI jacket.

“This is like a TV show,” Bohana said. “A black SUV, the FBI jackets, men wearing rubber gloves, putting things in paper bags.”

“We need to go to the third floor,” Hammond said. “Will you open the door for us?”

“That’s my brother-in-law’s apartment.”

“Yes,” Hammond said, and Bohana looked at him, a realization crossing her face.

“This is about Ted?”

“We need to go to the third floor, ma’am.”

The apartment was small, a three-room efficiency. But it was neat, clean, and had nice furnishings. It also had an air duct near the ceiling that Peyton saw Hammond staring at. He moved closer and examined the wall-mounted temperature setting.

Drawers opened and shut, the closet was quickly searched, soil samples were taken from shoes, and Ramirez, wearing an LA Dodgers cap, went to work on the computer, turning it on and finding it to be password protected. He closed the laptop and bagged it.

“Frank,” a young blond agent said, “come take a look at this.” Her name was Sally Hann. She wore glasses with green and orange frames and had freckles.

They had pulled the sofa away from the wall.

Hammond examined the carpet beneath the sofa. A large spot was flattened. “Something in a heavy box was here for a long time,” he said. “Measure the spot.”

Hann nodded, went to work, and told him the dimensions.

Peyton, Hewitt, and Jackman stood back and watched the feds work.

“You can’t take my brother-in-law’s computer,” Bohana said. “That’s personal property.”

Hammond took his cell phone off his belt. He looked at Hewitt. “It’s Ramirez.” Then to the phone, “Go, Steven.” He listened, eyes running to Bohana. When he clipped the phone on his belt again, he said, “Mrs. Donovan, do you know where your brother-in-law and brother are?”

“No idea. First the school calls to say Michael is off somewhere playing hookie, and now this.”

“Michael didn’t show up at school today?” Peyton said.

“I told him he’d have to meet with the guidance counselor and probably write a letter to the University of Maine. I think he’s avoiding both.”

“Can I talk to you?” Hammond said to Peyton and Hewitt.

They followed him out of the efficiency and down the stairwell.

“We’ve got a problem,” Hammond said. “Ramirez can’t find Ted Donovan. He never went to work. Didn’t call in sick.” He pointed up the stairs to the apartment. “His sister-in-law will tell him about this. So now we have a serious flight risk on our hands.”

“Shit storm,” Hewitt said.

Hammond nodded. “That’s what this is turning into.”

“You have BOLOs out on both men?” Peyton said.

Hammond nodded. “That flattened spot on the carpet matches the approximate size of the painting you’re talking about.”

They went back into the apartment.

Bohana was waiting for them. “What is this about? What are you accusing them of ?”

“We just have some questions we’d like to ask them.”

Bohana turned to Peyton. “He’s lying. Peyton, what’s going on?”

“We just need to talk to Ted and Dariya,” Peyton said. “That’s really all. Once they help us make sense of a few details, all this goes away.”

Bohana looked at her. “What details?”

“I can smell your soup from here,” Peyton said. “The whole house smells great.”

“You can’t do this,” Bohana said. “Do you know that? You can’t just come into someone’s home and take their personal belongings.” She pointed to the bags. “Those are Ted’s shoes, his laptop.”

“The sooner we can speak to him and clear this all up,” Hammond said, “the sooner he can have everything back.”

Peyton was studying Bohana’s face. Her expression said Bohana knew Hammond was lying, which Peyton knew would lead to problems.

12:30 p.m., 31 Monson Road

Michael looked at his phone, which had just vibrated. The text was from Aleksei. He hadn’t expected that.

The school had called his mother to report him absent, and his mother had called (straight to voicemail, he’d made sure) twice and texted three times urging him not to skip the meeting with the guidance counselor at one. Then his father had gotten in on it, leaving two more voice messages. No word, though, from Uncle Ted.

He’d been at Davey Bolstridge’s since he ran, and now the boys were sitting on living room chairs watching ESPN.

“It’s cool that you took the day off to hang with me,” Davey was saying. “You see that LeBron highlight? It was sick.”

“Yeah.” Michael was looking at the floor. Davey’s home was maybe a third the size of the Donovan house. The living room furniture was worn, the carpet stained. Michael saw the way Davey looked around the Donovan home any time he visited. The last time he’d been over, he’d asked how big the flat screen was in the great room. Looks like a movie screen, Davey had muttered.

“Jaspar pissed on that spot on the carpet,” Davey said. “The other two stains are him as well.” He pointed. “Every time it thunders, Jaspar pisses on the carpet. I think my father will shoot him when I’m gone.”

“Man, stop talking like that.”

“Isn’t that why you came today? Spend time with me before I’m gone?” As if the thought triggered it, Davey flinched in pain. “Motherfucker, that was a bad one,” he said. “Sometimes it feels like a knife right in my side.”

“Dude, I’m so sorry I fucked up and got busted. Now I can’t help you.”

Davey was breathing hard, but he waved that off. “No, man. No biggie. Shit just happens. I hope the U-Maine thing works out. And thanks for coming. It’s cool that you wanted to hang out. So that’s all, huh. Just to hang, not because I’m dying?”

“Yeah, man. Just to hang.”

“Dude, you looked like you ran a marathon when you got here. Why’d you park in the back?”

“Because it’s plowed, and I wanted to leave the driveway clear for your parents.”

“Nice of you. Mom will probably invite you to eat with us.”

Michael was staring at the text: are u around? need help w/ something @ school. can u wlk nxt door?

What did Aleksei need? Aleksei thought he was in the high school around the corner from the middle school.

“My mother will be home around four,” Davey said. “I’m not hungry, but she’s making spaghetti, if you want to stay.”

“Thanks, dude. I need to take off for a little while, though.” Michael stood up. “Things are a little rough at home. Can I sleep here tonight?”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

That was a good question, Michael thought.

1:45 p.m., Logan International Airport, Boston, Mass.

Nicolay toted one duffle bag and stood at the rental counter.

“Is a compact car okay?” The small man behind the counter had dreadlocks. Nicolay always wondered about dreadlocks. Crazy Americans. How did he wash his hair?

“I’ve got a Ford Focus.”

“I don’t feet in that,” Nicolay said.

“Fit?” the young guy behind the counter said. “You want something bigger?”

“Yes,” Nicolay said. “In hurry.”

“Okay. I have a Camry, but it’ll cost twice as much.”

“Fine,” Nicolay said. He handed the clerk a credit card. If he charged things, he’d have at least until the end of the month before creditors discovered there was no money in the accounts. Selfishly, he also knew his inheritance, which Victor had discussed with him numerous times, was tied to those accounts. So this was business, but it was also personal on several levels. After all, he’d been the one to start the funeral arrangements. That job should have been Marfa’s; she was Victor’s sole living relative. But she was gone, and Nicolay figured she’d lost that privilege anyway. Victor always said he wanted to be cremated, so that was what Nicolay had done. The ground in the St. Petersburg cemetery was frozen; the service to place the urn in the ground would have to wait until June.

“Would you like to fill out a form to become an advantage member and save ten percent?”

“Nyet. No.” Nicolay pointed to his watch. He didn’t have time for this. He was tired, the past twenty-four hours were a mad dash, and he was meeting someone in the Common in thirty minutes. The man would have something for Nicolay that he needed but hadn’t been able to bring on the plane.

“Would you like to purchase any maps today, sir? Don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Nicolay didn’t answer. He took the car keys and walked out the door. Maps weren’t necessary. He knew where he was going.

Outside, he went to the car, opened the trunk, and tossed his bag in. He remembered how easy these trips had been years ago, in his thirties and forties. Once, he’d landed in Burma at 8 a.m., done what Victor had asked of him, walked casually away from the scene as cops descended upon the place, and was back on a plane before lunch. The thought made him smile.

These trips—business trips, he called them—had been easy twenty years earlier. He still took the trips and did the jobs. But now they took so much more out of him. This day, he was bone tired: The funeral arrangements, making sure the nanny was set, and, of course, this trip was different—it was about Marfa.

Why did she hate Victor so much? Why couldn’t she understand?

He pulled the Camry out of the lot and looked at the GPS on the dashboard. The voice spoke English, and it was hard to understand, so he concentrated on the screen’s blue line.

Marfa. Like Victor, he, too, had memories: playing dolls with her when she’d been Anna’s age; it had been him, not Victor—who was fifty when she was born—who’d built her tree house; and he’d been there at her graduations from McGill and NYU. Until the day before, a photo of him with her at Christmas stood on his nightstand. Years ago, she’d called him Uncle. Until the day before, she’d been the daughter he never had.

This trip would certainly be different.

He thought of the children, Anna and Rodia. In this life, in this business, he thought, children were often orphaned. He knew that happened. Knew, too, that he’d been responsible for it in the past. But he’d never known any of them. He told himself it might not come to that.

But, although he hadn’t cried in years—not since Victor’s late wife Dunya had passed so many years ago—for the second time in two days, tears streak his cheeks. He knew what he had to do, and there was no avoiding it.

3 p.m., Garrett Station

“We have everyone and everything in place,” Frank Hammond said. He held an energy drink, forearms resting on the picnic table.

“Bohana’s phone?” Peyton asked.

“We’re listening to every incoming and outgoing call. And Ramirez is outside the house.”

Peyton was staring at the whiteboard. She was reading from a list of circled words. “You have a trace on Ted’s cell phone?”

“He hasn’t used it.”

“So he knows we’re looking for him?”

“Or he just hasn’t used his phone today,” Hammond said.

“I guess it’s possible,” Peyton said. “Ted will show up.”

“If they’re in the area. If they have the painting, they probably aren’t in the area. And given the dimensions of the flattened spot on the carpeting, they have the painting.”

“Thirteen works of art were stolen in that heist,” Hammond said. “Think they have only one?”

“Who knows?” Peyton said, but then she thought back to the conversation she’d overheard in the Donovans’ driveway. “I think they lost the rest.”

“Lost them? You’re talking close to three hundred million dollars worth of stuff.”

“I overheard Dariya say a boat overturned,” she said.

“Jesus Christ,” Hammond said. “I’m going to be sick, if you’re saying what I think you are.”

“I don’t know,” Peyton said. “It was a cryptic conversation between Dariya and Ted.”

“Think Dariya would leave his son and take off ?” Hewitt said.

“Probably,” Peyton said. “He used him to get in the country, and the boy is probably safer here than in the Ukraine.”

“Bohana said her brother’s been staying with her,” Hammond said. “We’ll see if he shows up there tonight.”

The microwave over the stove beeped, and one of the FBI agents got up and took ramen noodles out.

“You feds are starting to like our meeting room, aren’t you?” Hewitt said.

“An army marches on its stomach,” the agent said. He looked like a weightlifter to Peyton.

“Roosevelt said that, right?” Hewitt said.

The agent nodded. “I think so.”

“You want to find Dariya Vann,” Peyton said, “stake out his son.”

Hewitt turned to Hammond. “The son is at a foster home. Foster caretaker’s name is Maude O’Reilly.”

Hammond nodded.

Hewitt turned back to Peyton. “We are. Sandy Teague is at Maude O’Reilly’s house for now. But you have a relationship with the boy. He might talk to you.”

Sandy Teague was the station’s other female agent.

“Think he knows where Dariya is?” Peyton asked.

Hewitt shrugged.

“I can relieve Sandy,” she said.

“No,” Hewitt said. “Tomorrow morning. Go home. When was the last time you slept?”

She didn’t answer, only stood and started for the front door. “Call me if something breaks,” she said over her shoulder.

3:25 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive

“Hi, pal.” She met Tommy at the bus. “Tell me all about karate last night.”

“We worked on a lot of things. It was fun. Stone said I’m improving. I can tell I really am.”

“How was school?” She took his backpack. They were walking up the driveway. He had his winter coat unzipped, something that drove her crazy. It was only thirty-four degrees, after all.

“I did well on my spelling test.”

“You got it back already?”

“No. I just know I did.”

“That’s great,” she said, and held the front door for him. What a difference a year makes, she thought. A year ago, he was in the Special Ed room during his free time, believing he was the “dumbest kid in school.”

He kicked his boots off into the closet. They banged against the back wall, but she let it go.

“The new ways of studying the words are really helping, huh?” she said.

He nodded. “I like bouncing the ball as I say the letters. It helps me remember things.” And sitting on the ball also helped him to concentrate when he worked at his desk.

She unzipped his backpack and took his lunchbox out. They walked to the kitchen. She left the L.L.Bean lunch cooler on the counter, then poured him a glass of milk.

“It was nice of Stone to get you. Gram told me about it.”

“Gram really likes Stone.” Tommy smiled.

“What about you?”

“I like him too. He likes cool things.”

“Like what?”

“Karate, the Red Sox, XBox.”

It made her smile. “Let’s have an early dinner,” she said, and yawned.

“I told Stone I invited Dad to my karate match last weekend. I kept looking for Dad during the match, but he never showed up.”

“That’s why you were distracted?” she said.

He shrugged. “He was probably with his new family.”

“He doesn’t have a new family, Tommy. He’s just dating someone with two sons.”

“I saw him with them at a Red Sox game. It was on Facebook.”

Jeff was such an asshole.

“You still come first with him, Tommy,” she said. “I’m certain of that.”

He didn’t reply. He sat staring at his milk.

“How come you didn’t tell me you invited your dad?”

“I wanted him to come—he said he’d be there—and you could see that he wants to be with us again.” He wasn’t looking at her, and his shoulders started to shake.

She knew he was crying.

“You did that because I mentioned Stone moving in?” she said.

He only shrugged, but it was all he needed to do.

7:05 p.m., Garrett High School

Michael didn’t see Aleksei. And he wondered why the text asked him to meet in the back parking lot. It was never lit, and the cloud cover made the back lot even darker than usual.

The inside of the truck was warm. He’d drove around Garrett for a while, thinking. Now he cracked the window. He thought about Davey, about how he flinched and spoke of the “knife” in his side. What must that feel like? And there was no way to help him now.

And now his younger cousin needed help. He looked around the parking lot and slid the truck into park. His headlights illuminated nothing of consequence—a dumpster, milkcrates, cardboard boxes. The last text message Aleksei sent made it sound like whatever was going on was serious: I really need yr help.

He knew it was Aleksei because he had Aleksei’s phone number saved to his Contacts. He’d had to save it when his mother insisted he take Aleksei to the basketball game with him. He did, but he sure as hell didn’t sit with Aleksei. He went there to see Jenny. (He couldn’t care less about the boneheads who played basketball.) And when he and Jenny went below the bleachers, he lost track of Aleksei, so he texted him when it was time to go home.

Now he texted where r u?

This whole thing felt wrong. Aleksei was supposed to be at Mrs. O’Reilly’s house. She’d been Michael’s grade-school teacher, so he knew she was nice but strict. If Aleksei was supposed to be there, she’d make sure he was there.

He slid the truck into reverse and started to back up.

Then he saw headlights behind him.

8:15 p.m., Reeds Inn and Convention Center

She smelled vomit.

She checked her hands. Had she gotten it on her? She didn’t see anything, but Pyotr’s shirtfront had been crusted with his dried vomit, and the smell seemed to be following her. She’d left the Buick’s windows cracked to try to alleviate the problem when she’d entered the bar.

Pyotr had been a large man, so it had taken Marfa several hours to dispose of his body. She had to wait until after dark and then to drag the stiffening corpse down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the back seat of the Buick. And, of course, there had been the disposal location to consider. It had taken longer than an hour to find a secluded spot that didn’t require dragging the body too far from her car, but was still remote enough to allow it to go undiscovered for days or longer. She wasn’t sure the spot would work, but she couldn’t leave the body in the house for the landlord to find. The discovery of a naked body in the woods was a far better option.

Next, she’d showered and sent three messages to Ted Donovan. He’d finally responded, cryptically saying they were reluctant to move the painting before the actual sale, but that he wanted to “talk things over” with her, wanted to meet at the bar in the Reeds Inn and Convention Center.

She didn’t trust him and wasn’t in a hurry to talk. So now she was sitting across the room from him, the Thursday-evening crowd providing plenty of cover, watching him for a while. So far, he was alone. College kids were at the bar, reminding her of her time in Montreal at McGill. She wore a winter ski hat and glasses and sat at a tall table in the back. She been in bars where old men watched sports on TV, and some drank vodka in the morning. Those were depressing places. This bar was different. College kids bantered back and forth. Most drank beer, and the place was dark. A boy and girl were kissing across the room, and a band was setting up in the front.

She saw Ted check his phone, a draft beer before him. He typed something.

Her phone vibrated. Are you at the bar?

On my way, she replied.

She saw him shake his head. She wondered where Dariya was. Probably with the artwork.

After thirty minutes, she figured Dariya wasn’t coming. She pulled off her hat and slipped it, along with her glasses, into her purse. At the next table, a college boy was looking at her. She winked, and the college kid blushed. The guy next to the young man slapped his friend’s arm.

She moved to the bar and sat down beside Ted.

“Where did you come from?” he asked. “I was watching the door.”

“Where is Dariya?”

“Why? Sonya, I thought you and I could get to know each other. For instance, I don’t even know your last name.”

“That’s right,” she said. He had no idea he didn’t even know her forename. “And I doubt Ted is your real name. And that’s fine. This is business. Do you have the painting?”

“Of course.”

“Here? In your car?”

“No, like I said, I don’t want to move it twice. That’s too risky.”

“I’m starting to think there’s something wrong here”—she looked directly at him—“like you’re FBI or something, and this whole thing is a setup.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong. I want to see the painting. And you’re running out of time.”

“That’s what I wanted to meet you about,” he said. “We’ll have the painting for you in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“Yes, now why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

She shook her head. “Call me when you’re ready to do business. Tell Dariya I’m leaving town tomorrow, and I won’t be coming back. So it’s now or never.”

She stood to go.

Ted’s cell phone vibrated on the bar. He looked down. The text was from Dariya. He’s w/ me. Where to go with him?

“Sonya, where are you staying?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“If it’s secluded, we need your help,” he said.